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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27659324">caring for you (so i don't have to care for myself)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm'>procrastinatingbookworm</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Hello, I'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same? [16]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hollow Knight (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Family Member Death, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, if possible i'd like to become your family loops in the bg, okay so, self-sabotage, sighs deeply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:48:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,027</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27659324</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation remarkable only for how much of it goes unsaid.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hornet &amp; Tiso (Hollow Knight), Quirrel/Tiso (Hollow Knight), The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel &amp; The Knight, The Knight &amp; Tiso (Hollow Knight)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Hello, I'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same? [16]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957039</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>caring for you (so i don't have to care for myself)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>if you feel the need to skip this one, it will be summarized in the notes of the next fic.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tiso wakes up to a warm weight on his chest. It’s not Quirrel, though he’s there too, curled up next to Tiso in a position that looks incredibly uncomfortable, although Quirrel seems to be sleeping soundly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The weight is Ghost, similarly balled up, lying on Tiso’s front, the front of their mask mashed against his throat, their horns neatly framing his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Groggy, heavy with sleep, Tiso lifts his good arm to rub at the base of their horn. Their mask is cracked in more places than the bandaged split down the middle—nowhere near the smooth surface it used to be. Even under Tiso’s gentle ministrations, tiny shards of white flake off, sticking to his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment, they stir, glancing up at Tiso without moving their head away from his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello,” Tiso says, surprised by the way the words catch in his throat. “Sleep well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghost doesn’t answer, their hands occupied with kneading at Tiso’s chest. They seem content, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without lifting his fingers from their horn, or disturbing their kneading, he gathers Ghost into the crook of his arm, folding them against his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they shift to accommodate his attempt at a hug, they’re close enough for him to press his face against the side of their mask, mandibles clicking against the shell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghost doesn’t make a sound, but their hands flatten out against Tiso’s chest for a moment, before starting to knead again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tiso’s chest </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and it has nothing to do with the tiny clawtips pricking his carapace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds them there a while, breathing in the sharp chill of them, like a cold-season morning, ever-present under the earthy smell of the dead infection that clings to their cloak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Ghost eventually withdraws, ducking their head from under Tiso’s hand, it aches, but no worse than their weight against him does. It has nothing to do with proximity, and everything to do with the desire to bury them somewhere safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re not a grub, but he still wants to. They deserve to be safe, and warm. They deserve the best he can give them—no. They deserve better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghost, still standing right in front of him, tilts their head. They lift their claws, dragging a finger from the corners of their eyes and down each cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tiso wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand, clearing his throat. “I’m fine, squib. Worry about yourself, first. You’ve done enough for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghost tilts their head in the opposite direction. They rest a clawtip on their chest, just over their heart, moving their hand in a circle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Tiso a moment to place the sign. He doesn’t know much of it—enough to get by in the linguistic space between Dreamtongue and Wyrmtongue, but not much more. He thinks they’re signing </span>
  <em>
    <span>feeling</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>emotion.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll tell you when I figure it out,” he mutters, scrubbing at his cheeks with his fingertips. “How are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t expect them to answer, but they hold their hands in front of them, palms up and clawtips together, like they’re carrying something, then jerking their hands down and apart, like dropping something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tiso knows that one. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lost.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His mandibles click. Tiso has to curl his hand into a fist so tight it shakes to resist his instinct to burrow them—</span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of them, himself and Ghost and Quirrel and Hornet and Holly—back down into the earth, into a safe, confined, navigable nest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants them safe. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs</span>
  </em>
  <span> them safe, he—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t do this again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s lost one colony. Two families. He can’t…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe don’t wander so far, then, squib,” Tiso says, flatly, fingers knotted in the blanket wrapped around him. “Or do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghost just stares at him for a moment, then walks away, over to Holly, crouching down beside their oversized head and stroking the less cracked side of their face, with such tenderness that Tiso aches all over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that about?” Quirrel asks, mildly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tiso startles, going for his shield. The pain stops him before the panic abates, and he has to catch his breath for a moment even after he freezes, reminding himself that Quirrel doesn’t mean any harm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Quirrel says, in that same gentle, toneless voice, and Tiso grips the blanket so tight it hurts. “Are you all right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t do this anymore,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Tiso thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t live like this, please let me go, I can’t keep my promise anymore.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“As much as I can be,” Tiso says, letting go of the blanket to squeeze Quirrel’s offered hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghost looks over their shoulder. They don’t have an expression, but the tilt of their head is something in the realm of disbelieving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t,” Tiso starts. “I didn’t plan for this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the edge of his vision, Hornet sits up in her nest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel grips Tiso’s hand tighter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(He doesn’t have to say it. They know. He can tell from their faces—even Ghost and Holly’s inexpressive masks. Just the way they all turn toward him is enough.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had a plan,” Tiso says, even though they know. “I had </span>
  <em>
    <span>plans.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I didn’t plan for </span>
  <em>
    <span>this.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“None of us did.” Hornet says, sharp enough to cut through the haze in the room. “I understand your pain, but if any of us believed the Infection could be stopped, or the stasis could break, we did not believe we would survive such a thing. Or that we should.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghost wrings their claws together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But we did,” Quirrel says, in a twisted thread of a voice. “Our plans, whatever they may have been… failed. We’re all still alive.” He turns his claw over, lacing his fingers with Tiso’s. “I suggest we make the most of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tiso’s first thought, that he’s exceedingly thankful doesn’t actually come out of his mouth, is </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t want to.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he squeezes Quirrel’s claw until pain radiates up the length of his arm, an aching heat at each of his joints</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe the first thing we should do is make this place an actual nest,” he suggests, and manages to smile at Hornet and Quirrel’s simultaneous wordless groans of agreement.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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